


of catcher and of caught

by summerstood



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Dishonored Kink Meme, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-15
Updated: 2016-11-15
Packaged: 2018-08-31 04:54:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8564839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/summerstood/pseuds/summerstood
Summary: No, you want something more personal. You want a human touch. You want the excess of comfort and hope and language stripped away to the core where the only thing that can lie in wait is the sliver-thin edge of desperation. You want to stare into the abyss.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ~~all of the nobles are perverts and so are you :3 enjoy~~ (finally posting in celebration of dishonored 2)  
>  vaguely written for the dishonored kink meme prompt:  
> One of the guards in Coldridge binds and blindfolds Corvo and lets nobles (who have seen and lusted after him for years) have their way with him, for a price.

 

 

Oh, my _dear_ , it does get so dreadfully dull doesn’t it? The flurry of all those balls and parties and the machinations of masked liars tick, tick, ticking away underneath all that glitz and glamour. No, you want something more personal. You want a human _touch_. You want the excess of comfort and hope and language stripped away to the core where the only thing that can lie in wait is the sliver-thin edge of desperation. You want to stare into the abyss. And what better setting for this to take place than in _Coleridge_? Home to the lost and the damned and you cannot help but think that this feels uncannily familiar.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
I.

  
  
The first man that they bring in is a guard. One with a bone to pick if the glare he shoots is any indication.  
  
“Scum,” he spits out, fisting a meaty hand into the base of the prisoner’s hair. The former Lord Protector does not move, does not speak. “The Empress trusted you. We all trusted you. I served at the Tower once. Didja ever notice the way the Empress looked at you? She was--- She didn’t deserve to die like that.”  
  
Corvo, the man that is called anything but these days (filth, traitor, murderer), is released from his bonds and there is a banked stillness in the air as all of you watch. The thread-thin tension finally snaps and they’re off, two bodies meeting and clashing to gain the upper hand, everything honed into the fluid movements of those who know what it is like to fight even when the odds are stacked against their favour.  
  
It is survival of the fittest in an uncaring world. It is a hand scrabbling for meager scraps on the street and another grappling for shelter and it is a hardship that none of you will ever know.  
  
It is _glorious_.  
  
There are drugs singing through his veins but Corvo still fights like a man possessed, limbs straining and pushing on to the very last even as his movements start to slip and drag. It is an unfair fight and yet it still takes three men to bring him down.  
  
By the time he is panting and gasping on the cold ground, the guards moving in to methodically have their way with him, the sounds are echoed in the mouths of the fellow nobles gathered with you as well.  
  
They fuck him roughly and without care, every sharp downward snap sending him scrabbling against the ground and twisting away desperately.

  
His cries of pain will bring you to completion again and again as you touch yourself at night cocooned in the comfort of eiderdown and silken sheets.

 

 

II.  
  
  
  
Delight of delights! Someone brings in a man of faith next, and yes, oh _yes_ , there will be more than just one person falling this time around.  
  
You expected contrition and guilt and all of the sniggering remarks about repression and what those overseers get up to behind their walls to come to life in this man. What you get instead is the searing zeal of one who truly believes that his actions are not motivated by desire, no nothing so base as that, but the need to purge and redeem.  
  
The Overseer mutters benedictions and scriptures into Corvo’s skin, gradually drawing out a swell of moans from the trembling form beneath him with the same care he might have afforded to the highest litany. His thrusts are punishing and his grip relentless, as is suitable for one fallen from the grace of the everyman.  
  
“You need to be purged, my boy,” the overseer snarls. “Why do you turn away? The influence of the outsider seeks to ensnare you, tempt you into the unknown night where the good and just falter. It is a necessity, this.”  
  
The Overseer proceeds to teach the seven strictures with exacting precision. By the time he gets to the fifth, Corvo is a mess.  
  
_Restrict the rampant hunger…_  
  
The overseer makes him lick every drop released, especially what has dripped down onto the floor. It cannot do to be messy.  
  
_Restrict the wanton flesh…_  
  
A tight hand curtails release, even as the Overseer shifts his angle and every thrust hits unerringly into that one spot which makes stars flare into being.  
  
_Restrict an errant mind before it becomes fractious and divided…_  
  
The Overseer makes Corvo repeat the strictures back as he steadily fucks him.  
  
Each time Corvo stumbles or stutters, another prayer bead disappears inside of him followed by a smack and the Overseer makes him start all over again from the beginning.  
  
All of you are praying for Corvo not to finish, and when he doesn’t, it is the closest anyone in the room has ever felt to a higher power.

 

 

III.  
  
  
  
All of you decide that he needs a tiny break, a kind hand and soothing words when he has only ever received brutality thus far. After all, you do not like being overly cruel. The next person you bring in is… Devoted. He knows everything there is to know about the Lord Protector. _Wants_ to know everything. Has tracked down scraps of information trailing all the way to the Jewel of the South where the Lord Protector once hailed from and even that is not enough. Has hoarded varying trinkets and oddities loosely connected to the Lord Protector --- A daguerreotype discreetly made! A scrolled spoon that had once touched his lips! A glistening lock of hair! Oh, Lord Brisby would be so proud.  
  
Still. It's not enough. He pulls strings of connections, jewels, money; all these and more to gain access to an event here or a state function there. All these just to catch a glimpse of the Lord Protector from where he lurks in the distance, and there he is, straight-backed and composed and utterly indifferent and all he wants is for the Lord Protector to stare his way once, just _once_.  
  
Hm? What’s that? Obsessed? Hush, the man only means well.  
  
Just look at him. The instant they bring him in, the first sight of his beloved Lord Protector has him shaking so hard that you are afraid he might very well swoon on the spot, the poor dear. When he has composed himself sufficiently (as much as he can), he whispers endearments and promises, _beloved, darling, I will find a way, don’t you worry, I will keep you and no one will be able to hurt you ever again, sshh everything will be fine_. It is all really very sweet and so you wonder why Corvo looks so horrified.  
  
The man is nothing but gentle. Too gentle, perhaps. All of you are beginning to get just the tiniest bit bored.  
  
He is the first to take Corvo from the front though and _this_ is when things finally pick up, thank the stars. The Lord Protector keeps his eyes shut the entire way and the man is getting visibly more and more distressed.  
  
“Why won’t you look at me? Even now you--- Please. _Please_. Open your eyes! Look at me!”  
  
Corvo keeps his eyes closed the entire way and all of you, wide-eyed, marvel at the way the man breaks down spectacularly at such a simple act.

 

 

IV.

  
  
Today, all of you find that there is a craving for _violence_. Nothing so banal as fists against flesh, although there is an undeniable beauty to be found in the bloom of bruises and red coaxed to the surface, what you are looking for this time is something more cutting. One that can suitably wreck the Lord Protector without a forceful hand ever being laid against him.  
  
You know just the perfect person for this.  
  
Corvo is blindfolded before she is brought in. Every muscle in his body is tensed and his head twitches sharply when a calm footfall starts to head towards him. He is relying entirely on sound now and you could not have asked for a better position for him to be in, oh yes, all the better that he listens very, very carefully for what is said next.  
  
There is a small pause, enough to build up the requisite amount of anticipation and it is only when everything is on the verge of snapping that she finally opens her mouth to speak.  
  
“Hello, Corvo.”  
  
All of you can see the way that Corvo gives a full body jerk at this, a puppet that has lost its strings, the way that his breath rattles out through his teeth like he has been shot and you know that you have chosen well indeed.  
  
It is the first thing that anyone says to her when she chooses to speak.  
  
“My dear. Has anyone ever told you that you sound so very much like the Empress herself?”  
  
  
She used to be irked by this. Everyone is always disappointed to find that the similarity only extended as far as her voice and no further and she is tired of disappointing people. Now, she is given the chance to craft this voice of hers into a weapon and she wields it with deadly and familiar accuracy at the former Lord Protector.  
  
She presses her lips intimately against his ear, cradling him in a lover’s embrace, and slowly and methodically murmurs her resentment towards him in her role as Jessamine Kaldwin.  
  
Later, when she makes him lick her, she continues to weave barbs to aim at him.  
  
“Even now, in this, you let me down. I should have expected nothing more from a Lord Protector that has failed to protect.”  
  
When it is over, all of you realize that it is the first time any of you have ever seen him cry.  
  
  
  
+++  
  
  
  
You are not too sure how but he escapes in the end. The only things left of his former presence are the shackles used to bind him and the faint scent of seasalt and spilled oil. You know he is roaming somewhere out there. There is news of a shadowy being that can vanish into thin air in one breath, of someone who can speak the language of the rats, and it does not take much to put two and two together.  
  
He is somewhere out there and you know that, one day, he will come for you next.

 


End file.
